HELPER12

by Jack Blaine

  Those blue eyes shine their full force on me, and I look away. When I look back, he’s still staring and I feel my cheeks flush hot. I know they’ve turned that infuriating shade of pink that they do when I’m embarrassed, because he smiles, a slow, maddeningly self-satisfied grin. I busy myself with the chart I was updating before these people barged into my Ward. When I’m done with that, the Director and Mr. Sloane are still huddled in the far corner, and Ms. Sloane is still hypnotized by Jobee’s gurgles and burps. The boy is gone.

  I look around but I don’t see him lurking anywhere. I check on the other two babies; they are still sleeping peacefully. Helper29 walks in, and stares wide-eyed at the Director. It’s usually a bad thing to see a Director anywhere near the wards. I motion her over.

  “Who are they?” She whispers, but she is so loud I’m sure the Director can hear every word.

  “Shhh.” I hush her and lead her to the furthest corner, away from the Director. “I don’t know what’s up. They came in and asked to see Jobee.” I watch as the Director and Mr. Sloane talk in low voices. Now that Helper29 is here, I’m going to have to leave. My shift is over and there’s no reason for me to linger. I realize I don’t want to leave while Ms. Sloane is still holding Jobee. I walk back over to the table where I left the charts, and grab one. “Let me update you,” I say, and Helper29 looks at me like I’ve grown antennae. I do enjoy being with the babies, but usually by the time my shift is over I am ready to fly out the door—I just hand over the charts and consider the update done.

  I ignore the look, and start to go over temperatures and feedings and all the other things there is no need to go over because I have charted them all. I’m pointing out how many CCs of urine Jobee produced during my shift when Helper29 stiffens. I look up. The Director is approaching us. He looks pleased with himself, but then he usually does.

  “Helper29, the linens need replenishing here.” The Director is looking right at the stack of clean crib sheets. “Can you go to Supply and get some fresh ones please?” He taps his foot while Helper29 stares, confused. She is great with the babies, but she’s not the smartest.

  “Go ahead,” I say. “I’ll cover until you’re back.”

  As soon as she is out of earshot, the Director turns to me.

  “Helper12.” He pauses, ensuring that he has my full attention before he continues. “We have a . . . a situation.” He narrows his eyes at me, assessing me. “The Sloanes, there, are a wonderful, wonderful couple. They’ve been blessed with one son. They want, and can afford, another child.” He lowers his voice even more, so that I can hardly hear him.

  “Tragically, they are unable to conceive another child on their own. So they’ve come to us, seeking help.” He sounds like he’s selling something to me.

  “Why don’t they go to one of the agencies?” I don’t like where this is going. There are government approved agencies for this kind of thing; the Sloanes should be going to one of them.

  “Well.” The Director doesn’t look pleased with me. “That is really not your concern, Helper12.” He scans my badge again, and takes a carrycom out of his pocket. He keys something into it, and then slips it back into his pocket.

  “Your concern,” he says, “should be the welfare of these babies. And more so, the opportunity that has presented itself for that particular baby.” He gestures toward Jobee, who is still in Ms. Sloane’s clutches.

  I don’t want Jobee to go with these people, even though it would be a better life for him than what probably awaits him after tracking. He would have money, and education, and . . . freedom. I can’t believe I am being this selfish. I look at Ms. Sloane. She does seem to be in love with Jobee. Maybe it would be a great thing for him.

  The Director leans in close to me, so close I can smell his lunch—some sort of meat—on his breath. “Let’s not forget the opportunity that has presented itself to you, as well.”

  “What opportunity is that, sir?” Suddenly I feel very nervous.

  The Director touches my arm. “You,” he breathes, “will be going with Baby4, to the Sloane’s home. You will be their nanny.”

  I want to move my arm away, but I know better. “I’m not tracked as a Nanny, sir. I’m just a—”

  “I know what you are.” His hand wraps around my upper arm, squeezing. “You’ll do as you’re told now. The Sloanes will feed you well and provide a room for you, a private room, all your own.”

  “Administration will know the minute I don’t scan in for a shift.” I wonder how he thinks he can pull this off. The Sloanes must be offering him a lot, to take this sort of risk.

  “Helpers don’t show up all the time, all across the city.” He looks at me from the corner of his eye. “Don’t you follow the reports? Helpers go missing all the time, for many reasons. Some are simply never found.” His grip on my arm tightens to the point where I know that tomorrow, there will be purple bruise there.

  “Everything good here?” Mr. Sloane is before us. Ms. Sloane is right next to him.

  “Of course it is, dear, isn’t it?” She looks pointedly at the Director.

  “All is well.” The Director notices Mr. Sloane frowning at my arm, and loosens his hold. I want to rub my arm where he hurt me, but I don’t. I just stand, saying nothing.

  “Helper12, would tomorrow be too early for you to have your things ready?” Mr. Sloane is waiting for me to answer.

  “My things?” I sound like some sort of parrot. I have a very bad feeling.

  “Yes. We can send a car, just let the Director know your address and we’ll have it there tomorrow, say, early afternoon?” Mr. Sloane waits for me to answer, but I can’t seem to form any words.

  “Her address is on file—I can send it along to your car service.” The Director smiles at the two of them.

  “Don’t bring too much—the room’s furnished, of course, and you’ll be wearing clothing we provide.” Ms. Sloane wrinkles her nose. “We don’t want to import any problems.”

  “My dear.” Mr. Sloane looks chagrined.

  “Well?” Ms. Sloane does not seem repentant. “You know the problems the complexes have with infestations. I won’t have anything brought into our home.”

  The Director cuts in with assuring noises and steers the two of them away from me. They go, taking Jobee with them.

  That’s when I realize they’re taking Jobee.

  Chapter Four

  The Sloanes walked right out the door with Jobee. When Helper29 got back with the unnecessary linens, there were two babies in the Ward, not three. I don’t know what the Director told her; he grabbed my arm again and steered me out to the hall before she got back.

  “Be ready tomorrow at two.” He retrieved his carrycom, peered at the display. He thumbed in some numbers, oblivious to me, to the fact that I was shaking. After more staring at the display, he smiled.

  “Deposited with no problem.” He was talking to himself, as though I wasn’t there. His smile kept getting wider and wider. When he looked up, he seemed surprised to find me still standing there.

  “Well?” He clicked off the carrycom and pocketed it. “Get going. And remember what they said about not bringing any bedbugs along with you.” He curled his lip in distaste at the thought. “They’ll have the Driver come to your cube, so don’t hang around your complex attracting attention. Just wait inside until you hear your buzzer.”

  “Sir.” I think I must have been in shock at that point—I really thought he might listen to me. “I am designated a Baby Helper.” I placed special emphasis on my designation, as though he was just confused, and once he understood he would chuckle and send me back into the Ward to update Helper29 for shift change. “I don’t have Private Nanny training. I can’t work for the Sloanes.”

  The Director frowned. He drew in a breath, and then let it out slowly through pursed lips, like people do when they’re trying to lower their blood pressure.

  “Helper12.” He spoke slowly, as though he was addressing a child. “You don’t seem to be lis
tening. You will be working for the Sloanes, starting tomorrow. You will never be a Baby Helper again. I have sold you to them. Just like I sold that baby.” He put his face close to mine. “If you do not do as you are told, I will simply report your status as negligent, instead of missing.”

  Negligent. As in, not present at one’s designated task. As in, absent without permission. As in . . . life sentence.

  The penalty for negligence is severe. It really is a life sentence, and that’s a best case scenario. They execute people for it, sometimes. And all it would take for the Director to have me chased down and sentenced would be a single report.

  I nod at him, unable to say anything intelligent. And then I turn, and without one backward glance at the place I’ve worked since I left training, I head to my cube.

  Chapter Five

  I’ve been ready for two hours. It’s almost time now; I should hear the strident tone of my cube buzzer anytime.

  I’m sitting on my cot, dressed in my uniform, as the Director told me to do. He said I would get different clothes once I arrived at the Sloanes. I have my extra under garments and my spare pair of shoes in a sack next to me. I look around while I wait, at the place I’ve called home since I was reassigned from the training complex.

  Cubes aren’t much, but they’re a big step up from the dorms in the training complexes. In the dorms, we all slept in one big room, so they did feel less claustrophobic. But my cube, cramped as it may be, has been my sanctuary, my only private haven. The unpainted concrete walls have been my protection from everything outside of them. Not just the violent clashes that sometimes erupt in the complex halls, the sounds of people screaming at each other, hitting each other. Those things are a part of living in the lower complexes; the police don’t come here unless they have to, and they don’t think most crimes merit a visit.

  These walls have protected me against other things, too. The loneliness of my existence, the helpless feeling of knowing I will repeat my steps each day, that I will do as I am bid, do what I have been trained to do, until I can’t do it anymore. That I will die as I’ve lived, alone. Within my cube walls, sometimes, I’ve been able to forget my real life.

  I’ve been able to do that because I draw. I know it’s forbidden, I know I could be punished. But I do it anyway. I can’t really see the harm in my doodles. They are just pictures, just marks on paper. I would never show them to anybody.

  Still, they’re illegal, at least for me. I wasn’t tracked as an artist, and I haven’t been trained as one. I’m not supposed to engage in any sort of creative work. According to the government, unless you are trained in the proper subject matter and implementation, creative work can be dangerous. It can incite people, and that can lead to social unrest. Social unrest is not allowed. Untrained creation is a serious offense.

  I’ve always loved it, though. I doubt I’m any good—my drawings don’t look anything like what the government-sanctioned artists produce. I started accidentally, when I noticed that one of the illustrations in one of my training manuals was inaccurate. It was a picture of a baby, but the way the eyes were rendered was . . . wrong. They were placed just off from where they should be, and it made the whole face look funny. I had a pencil for charting—in training we didn’t have electronic charts—and I remember drawing over those eyes, enlarging them so that their placement looked more natural. I didn’t think about it; I just did it. And from there, I drew more, and more.

  My cubicle kept me hidden, safe from discovery for many hours, while I scribbled my little pictures. Yes, the cameras are live in my cube, just like they are in the rest, but I know a way to lie on my cot, turned just so, that blocks their electronic eyes. It must, or I would have been dragged away long ago. I draw in the flickering light of the ever present vid feed coming from the screen set into my cube wall. While the ads play pretty pictures of carefree people living lives I will never come close to, I draw, and I escape.

  I get the paper from the Ward. I know it’s stealing, but it’s only the wrappers from the gowns we use; they would be thrown out anyway. When I left training I stole two of the charting pencils, but they wore down to nubs long ago. So I had to go find a Jacket. That was an adventure.

  You can find them easy enough, the ones wearing the over-sized coats, hanging around outside the train station entrances. I’d heard about them, heard that those coats were outfitted inside with countless pockets and loops, holding all kinds of wares. I didn’t think I would be lucky enough to find one with pencils; they aren’t in common use, and I think most Jackets trade things like drugs or knives. I’d never thought of approaching one; they look scary. But I needed pencils.

  The Jacket I picked was almost always outside the entrance to the station near the Central Nursery. I decided it would be better to try there, in the bustle of the crowd, than at the station near my complex, where it was less busy. I walked past him a couple of times before I got the nerve to speak to him.

  He wore a black coat, bulky and long. He was surprisingly young—not much older than me, I don’t think. He sized me up as an amateur pretty quickly.

  “What you want?” He had a twitch—the right side of his mouth kept hitching up.

  “I want some pencils.” I whispered, so soft he had to lean in to hear.

  “What?”

  “Pencils.” I spoke a little louder. “I want some pencils.”

  “Keep it down, will ya?” He looked irritated. “I got no pencils.”

  “Oh.” I was crestfallen. I had planned this so carefully. I had taken two analgesic tablets from the Ward; I had planned to tell the Jacket they were blitzers; they were a popular drug in the complexes because of their mood elevating qualities. I could have access to blitzers as a Baby Helper, and he would know that, so it might work. I started to walk away.

  “Krike.” The Jacket sounded as irritated as he looked. I turned back toward him. He was shaking his head, as though I were the saddest thing he’d seen today.

  “Don’t mean I can’t get ‘em.” He crooked his finger at me. Dutifully, I stepped back toward him. He crooked his finger again, until I came close enough to hear.

  “What you got for ‘em?” His lip hitched while he waited for me to answer.

  “I’ve got some blitzers.” I hoped I sounded convincing. “Two,” I added.

  His eyes widened. “You? Blitzers? You sure?”

  “Yes!”

  How many pencils you want for your blitzers?”

  It struck me then. I couldn’t tell him I had blitzers when I didn’t. He was here at my station every day. When he discovered I’d duped him, I was sure he would have me killed, or worse.

  “I only have analgesics.” I bowed my head.

  “What?” He twitched some more, and scrunched his eyebrows together.

  “Pain relievers. But not the fun kind.”

  “Can you get more then two?”

  I looked up, shocked. I’d expected curses from him.

  “Yes.” I thought about it. “I can get a half dozen by tomorrow.” I could, as long as I was careful. Analgesics weren’t tracked as closely as some of the other medications. Sometimes Helpers took them for their own headaches during shifts.

  The Jacket nodded. “I get the worst back pain,” he said. “Standing here all day, gets pretty bad.” He did some mental calculations. “I’ll give two pencils for a half dozen. Be back here tomorrow, same time.”

  And I was.

  My Jacket kept me in pencils and I kept him in pain killers. It worked out well. And I could draw all I wanted, as long as I was careful. I folded wrappers for my sterile gowns each shift, and stashed them in my pocket. When I got back to my cube, I lay down with my back to the camera, and lost myself in sketches of tiny worlds, complete with roads and buildings and trees and parks. I drew faces, of no one I had ever known, faces that looked back at me from the wrapping paper almost as though they were trying to speak to me. I made up stories about some of the faces, and drew the places I thought they might live.r />
  It was my way to forget.

  I destroy all of my drawings. I have to, to be safe. I couldn’t take the chance they might be found in my cube during one of the police searches, infrequent as they may be. I carry them out of my cube the same way I bring the paper in, in my pocket. During my shift at the Ward, I take them out and shred them up into tiny pieces when I can, hiding what I’m doing from the cameras. It’s easier there, because there are many places the cameras don’t cover. Once I have the paper shredded, I flush them down one of the toilets.

  There are three drawings in the sack next to me, along with my shoes and underwear. I haven’t been able to shred them. I planned to do it on my shift last night, but then the Director had showed up. And now, I can’t bring myself to do it; I may never draw anything else again. I know it’s stupid, but I leave them there, inside one of the shoes.

  The buzzer sounds.

  Chapter Six

  The man standing outside the door isn’t in uniform; I guess Private Drivers don’t come under the same regulations as the lower designations do. He is very tall, so tall it doesn’t look like he will fit in the door without ducking. He doesn’t try to come in—just stands in the hall.

  “Helper12?”

  I nod.

  “I’m the Sloanes’ Driver.” He looks both ways up and down the hall. “We better go.” He turns and walks away.

  I grab my sack and follow him down the hall, into the elevator, outside. There is a private vehicle parked by the entrance to the building, black and shiny. He walks to it and opens the back door.

  I feel like I’m about to climb into a hole. A dark, dangerous hole that I don’t think I’ll get out of again.

  The Driver tilts his head toward the car interior, eyes scoping the area for witnesses. “Get in,” he says.